


Raven's Tongue

by RavenclawVulcanofCamelot



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, I Am Mordred
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Author, Friendship, Gen, Raven - Freeform, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawVulcanofCamelot/pseuds/RavenclawVulcanofCamelot
Summary: "I am Mordred, speaking to you from the wind with a raven's thin black tongue..."A young girl gets lost in the woods and is saved by a mysterious raven. But this raven is no ordinary bird. He was once human. He has a story to tell, and only she can make sure his voice is heard.





	Raven's Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the beginning lines of the book. You can see the quote it's taken from in the summary.

Deep in the woods, a raven perched on the branch of a tree. To all outward appearances it was a perfectly ordinary bird. But in reality, it was anything but.

Somewhere overhead, a hawk cried out. To any ordinary raven that would have been a sign of danger. But the bird perched on the branch ignored it. The hawks and the owls never came near him. Animals had a finer sense of the natural world than humans. They knew that this raven was more than he appeared.

He had lived for hundreds of years, seen empires rise and fall. He had traveled across Great Britain many times over. He had spent several years in the Tower of London. Once he had been captured and put in a zoo. Eventually the zoo had noticed that the bird never aged. Then the zookeeper had had the _brilliant_ idea to sell him to the circus.

However the “Amazing Immortal Raven” wasn’t as big a hit as the ringmaster had hoped. After all, there was no way for the circus to prove their claims of his immortality, all the audience saw was a bird. So the ringmaster had set him free, cursing about being ripped off all the while.

Of course, if the raven had wanted to, he could have given the audience a show they would never forget, but then he would never have regained his freedom.

The forest he currently resided in was in England. He had lost track of exactly how long he had lived here, but it had been several years at least.

The wind shifted, and suddenly the raven heard a new sound, one that was different from the regular sounds of the forest. He cocked his head to the side to listen. It was a soft sobbing, like that of a young child.

For a moment the bird stood still on the branch, as if deliberating.  Then he spread his wings and took off, flapping against the wind as he flew towards the sound.

Nearing its source, he landed on a high branch of an oak tree and looked down. Below, under a nearby tree, sat a small girl with dirty blonde hair. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Her dress was dirty and had torn in two places, no doubt from having been caught on branches. She had her face buried in her hands and was sobbing.

The raven flew down and landed a few feet away from her. The child took no notice. The raven hopped closer, but still she did not notice him.

He made a soft croaking sound, not wanting to startle her. Finally, she raised her head and looked around. She spotted the raven and regarded him with watery blue eyes.

The raven gave another soft croak, then with a flutter of his wings he flew the few feet between them and landed on her knee.

The child’s eyes widened. A small smile crept onto her face and she sniffled wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

“Hello, birdie,” she said. Her voice was as clear and high as a bell.

The bird cocked his head to the side, considering her. Once again it seemed as if he was trying to decide something.

_Hello._

The little girl gave a little jump as the voice sounded in her head. She looked around as if expecting to see someone, then looked back at the raven, “Did- did you say that?”

_I did._

“But how?” she asked, her eyes big and round, “Are you a magic birdie?”

 _In a manner of speaking_ , he answered, _I wasn’t always a raven. Once, a very long time ago, I was as human as you._

“Really?” the child asked, “How did you become a bird? Did an evil witch cast a spell on you?”

 _It is a long story,_ the raven answered, _And not a very nice one._

“Do you have a name?” the little girl asked.

 _I do,_ he replied, _My name is Mordred._

“Mordred?” she repeated, “I’ve never heard that name before. But it fits you. I’m Ella.”

 _Why were you crying, Ella?_ Mordred asked.

“I’m lost,” the little girl explained, a tremor coming into her voice “I live on the edge of the woods with my mummy and daddy. And I’m not supposed to go into the woods alone, but I saw a deer and it ran away and I wanted to see it again, so I tried to follow it, but I got lost.” Her lip was trembling and her eyes filled with tears again.

 _Don’t cry,_ Mordred said, _I can help you find your way home._

“Really?” Ella asked hopefully.

 _Of course,_ Mordred responded, _Just follow me._

He hopped off her knee and she stood up. He flapped his wings and took off, making sure not to get too far ahead of Ella as he flew.

In about fifteen minutes, they reached the edge of the forest. Mordred landed on a low hanging branch.

Ella beamed at him, “Thank you, Mordred.”

 _You’re welcome_ , the raven replied.

“Will you come visit me sometime?” Ella asked hopefully.

The raven considered her for a moment. It had been a long time since he had had any form of human companionship.

 _Yes_ , he replied, and Ella beamed again and clapped her hands.

 _Come here, to the edge of the forest,_ Mordred said, _But only to the edge. We wouldn’t want you to get lost again. I will meet you here._

“I’ll come tomorrow!” Ella promised brightly, “I better go now.”

She began to run toward a house that sat across a small meadow, then turned and looked back over her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Mordred! Thank you for helping me!” she called.

 _Goodbye, Ella,_ the raven’s reply sounded in her head.

True to her word, Ella came back to see Mordred the next day. And the day after that. And again, a few days later.

Soon, her visits became a regular part of Mordred’s life, and one he looked forward to.

As she grew older, Ella discovered a passion for writing. Many days, when Mordred arrived at the edge of the woods, she would be sitting under a tree, scribbling in a notebook.

Sometimes she would ask about his past, but he always avoided the questions. He did not like thinking about it, and in his eyes she was far too young to hear such stories.

One day, when Ella was sixteen, she came to visit him as usual. Nearly as soon as he arrived, Mordred sensed she had something on her mind. She had her notebook with her, but she wasn’t writing in it. She held it closed in her hands, frowning at the cover as if deep in thought.

 _Hello, Ella,_ he greeted, fluttering down to land beside her.

She looked up, “Oh, hello, Mordred.”

 _What are you thinking about?_ he asked.

Ella chewed her lip nervously for a moment before answering, “In school, we’ve been studying Arthurian legend.”

Mordred froze, a large part of him wanting to fly away, but he couldn’t.

Ella’s gaze held his, “The stories we’ve been reading mention a Mordred.”

Mordred stayed silent.

“Is that you?” Ella asked, “Are you the Mordred in the stories?”

Several seconds passed before Mordred answered.

 _Yes, I am_ , he replied at last.

Ella hesitated, chewing her lip again. Mordred was sure that she was about to get up and walk away, to turn away from him in disgust and fear, but she stayed where she was.

“They- they don’t say very nice things about you,” she said quietly.

 _No, I imagine they don’t_ , he responded.

“Are they true?” she asked.

 _Parts of them,_ Mordred answered, _But there are many things that the stories get wrong._

 _“_ Will you tell me the true story, then?” Ella asked, “Will you tell me your side of it? Because I know you, Mordred, and the man those stories we read describe… that’s not you.”

Mordred’s heart warmed at her words.

 _Yes, I will tell you my story,_ he said, _But I would like you to do something for me._

“Of course,” Ella said immediately, “What is it?”

“Write it down for me,” Mordred said, “Record it, so that in some small way the world can know the truth, even if to them it is only a story.”

A smile spread slowly across Ella’s face, “Of course. I would be honored to record your story.”

She opened her notebook and turned to a blank sheet, then put her pen to the paper. She looked up at him expectantly, “I’m ready. Go on.”

And for the first time in hundreds of years, Mordred began to tell the story of his life, and the human man he had once been.

xxxxxxxx

Two years later, Ella sat behind a table in a large bookstore. A stack of books sat on the table in front of her. Each cover was emblazoned with the words _I Am Mordred,_ and then, written smaller underneath,   _A Tale From Camelot._ Under the words, a dark-haired young man and a white dog were pictured, and in the background there was a distant castle.

A line of people extended back from the table.

“Hello,” Ella said with a smile, as a girl a little younger than herself came forward and handed her a book to sign.

“Hello,” the girl replied, “I really loved your book.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ella replied.

“How did you come up with the idea?” the girl asked.

Ella’s smile widened, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The girl looked curious at this answer, but didn’t question it, “Have you written anything else?” she asked, instead.

“Oh, yes,” Ella replied, “I’ve written lots of other stories. But this one is the most important. This one is the one that needed to be told.”

She handed the copy of the book she had signed back to the girl and the girl thanked her and left.  


After the line had dwindled away, Ella sat for a moment at the table, running her hand over the cover of one of the books.

He had been right, all those years ago. It hadn’t been a happy story, the one he had told her. But she was glad to know it all the same. And she was glad that she had written it, glad that it had been taken up by a publisher, not for her own sake, but for his. If she never had another book published, then she would be happy that it had been this one that had made it. After all these years, he deserved for his story to be known.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! The actual author of "I Am Mordred" is Nancy Springer, but I chose to create a fictional author for the purposes of this story because I would feel weird writing about a real person.


End file.
